


Midnight Confessions

by msermesth



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1970, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Bittersweet Ending, Confessions, M/M, Married Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Pillow Fights, Platonic Cuddling, Second-Hand Embarrassment, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Unresolved Sexual Tension, thoughts about cheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 13:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19888585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msermesth/pseuds/msermesth
Summary: In order to infiltrate SHIELD in 1970, Tony and Steve need three things--1. Some clothes2. A plan3. A grasp of the unresolved sexual tension between them





	Midnight Confessions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheron/gifts).



> I was prompted to write some romantic friendship set during the 1970 scene by sheron. I'm not sure how well this adheared to the prompt, but I fell in love with the concept. I hope you like it!
> 
> Thanks to TrixieB93 for the wonderful beta. Any errors you see are the product of my post-beta meddling.
> 
> (Yes, I know Midnight Confessions by The Grass Roots came out in 1968. It was both perfect, and the best I could do.)

They materialize in the same alley they left. Or at least, it’s almost the same alley; decades of dust and dirt have disappeared from the towering brick beside them and a bright yellow 1968 Ford Shelby is parked a few feet away. Both are good signs that they’ve ended up exactly where they wanted to be. 

Tony takes half a second to feel proud that _they did it, they have a chance_ , and then he sees Steve observing the parameter. _Ah shit_ , he may have missed something. His hands fly to the zipper of Steve’s uniform jacket (because everything was zippers in 2012), and he manages to get it almost the entire way down before Steve captures both wrists. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Steve whisper-screeches. His eyes are big, surprised, and from this distance, very blue. 

“This plan has a higher chance of success if you aren’t wearing Captain America cosplay.” Steve releases Tony’s wrists and lets him finish unzipping the jacket and unbuckling his utility belt, while keeping watch over Tony’s head. When Steve’s down to just the white sleeveless undershirt he keeps permanently glued to his body and the ill-fitting pants, Tony slips off anything that indicates he was trying to pretend he was a SHIELD agent more than forty years into the future and rolls it all into an odd shaped ball of clothes. “None of what we’re wearing is period appropriate--” he thinks that’s the case at least, he wasn’t really alive to know “--but we’re just going to have to own it. Uh...look like you belong.”

Steve walks to the end of the alley, looks both ways, and says “I can do that.” His hands are on his hips and Tony sees a problem right away. Steve looks _huge_ , an unholy alliance of arms, abs, and whatever the name is of the muscle that sits between his shoulder blades.

“Can you pretend to not be something out of a photoshoot for a little while?” Tony asks, feeling very exposed next to all this sweaty skin. They’re already getting looks. Steve doesn’t respond, just lets his silence be the question, and Tony continues, “I'm concerned you’re going to start a public health crisis if enough people see you and swoon.”

Steve looks suspiciously from side to side. “You’re the one who took my jacket off.”

“It’s like you’re asking me to regret undressing you,” Tony mumbles under his breath. He earns a look from Steve for that. “You’ve been a spy before. Look small and inconspicuous, and not like a construction worker from a music video.” Steve huffs, but he also turns in on himself and wraps his arms around his chest in a way that manages to hide the bulging tendons in his forearms. It’s impressive how quickly he goes from Captain America to just a tall chump on the street. “Perfect. You’re a natural. So, first things first--”

“We’re going to need disguises and some identification. And--” He flashes a look at the street signs at the intersection as they quickly cross the street. “--And a ride to Camp Lehigh. You couldn't have gotten us any closer?” His tone of voice holds all the Captain America energy he’s currently repressing.

“No could do. Before we had time to research where we were landing. Now we’re working on the fly, and I didn’t want us arriving somewhere we weren’t prepared to be.”

Steve shoots him a look. In another lifetime--or nine years ago--the look would have made Tony feel like he did something wrong; maybe back then it was supposed to. It doesn’t do that to Tony anymore. He sees an open ended question in Steve’s eyes, not judgement. “And how did you know that alley was going to be available?”

“I was prepared in case we fucked up and ended up fifty years earlier than we wanted.”

Steve stops walking and Tony gets about ten feet before he even notices. “We could’ve done that?”

“We could’ve done a lot of things.” Tony shrugs and slowly walks backward, trying to guide Steve from where he’s rooted to the sidewalk. “So, I double checked, and made sure that alley was older than you.”

“I don’t recognize it,” Steve says, but he’s smiling again and whatever had shocked him now seems forgotten. “Congrats on finding the one alley in the city of New York where I wasn't beaten up.”

Steve’s long legs help him catch up and when he does Tony has to quicken his pace to not fall behind. “I think tonight we need to lay low and get our bearings. That means we need a place to stay. And money.” It may be 1970, but it’s still Manhattan. 

“How the hell do we do that?” Steve asks, brow furrowed.

“How do you feel about robbery?” Tony looks from side to side and tries to remember as much as he can about his family’s finances during this time. Steve’s not even giving him The Look, his disagreement is already implied. Tony feels compelled to clarify, “I think I can still forge my mom’s signature, and come on, is it really stealing if it’s money I’m going to inherit?”

* * *

Later, when they meet up at a diner, Tony sees Steve’s ditched his pants and traded them for a bright peach polo with a comically wide lapel and a pair of grey slacks. It’s an odd combo on him, and maybe more color than Tony’s seen Steve wear since they met, but now he fits in with everyone around him in a way Tony can’t say for himself. “Nice outfit,” Tony tells him and he slips in the booth across from Steve and takes a bite of one of Steve’s cheeseburgers without waiting for an offer.

“Thanks.” Steve takes the burger from Tony’s hand and stuffs about a quarter of it into his mouth. “I just copied the first guy I saw in the street.” There’s some ketchup on the corner of his mouth. Tony debates about saying something about it, but just grabs a handful of fries from Steve’s plate. 

“You look the part better than I imagined you would.” Not that Tony would really know; he’s still months away from actually being born and his only sense of the fashion from this period is what he’s seen in sitcoms he would watch years later. It's more that...Steve looks like he belongs much better than Tony feels. Tony settled for a simple t-shirt and jeans combination that’s almost impossible to be outdated, something classic, easy. But it doesn’t feel easy, his wandering eyes keep catching detail after detail, from color palettes to hairstyles to architecture. And then there’s the cars. There are _so many cars_ , Tony just wants to spend a little time with them all.

But Steve’s just sitting there, eating like New York City diners are time’s great constant, too busy devouring his burgers to even shrug off Tony’s compliment. “I’ve been trying to research what I can,” he says, and pulls out a couple of different newspapers, all in black and white, and all with headlines about the US Military. He then sets one in particular in front of Tony. There’s a large black and white photo of a young Hank Pym explaining something to a few soldiers. “This one mentions Camp Lehigh. It looks like SHIELD’s been busy.”

Tony quickly reads the article next to the photo. It’s essentially about the coordination between the military’s scientific resources and the rest of it, and doesn’t say anything specific about Pym. “Ok, this makes sense,” he thinks out loud. “Looks like we have a choice to go in as either military or research. Why don’t we split the difference?”

“Sounds good.”

That was easy. “We’ll have to get you some fatigues and me an oversized coat that screams ‘I never leave the lab’.” Tony says while grabbing another handful of fries 

Steve catches Tony’s wrist before he has a chance to eat any of them. “Why’re you the scientist?” Steve asks. “I think I’d make a fine ‘Doctor Stevens’.” 

Tony opens his mouth to say something about the obviousness of the choice, but his brain gets caught on one specific detail. “ _Stevens?_ ”

Steve’s conveniently stuffed his mouth with French fries, a strange sight given he looks dead serious about his plan. Tony waits for him to swallow. The dab of ketchup is still on his lips and Tony really wants to wipe it off. “Yeah, I'll just say all that smart stuff you and Bruce are sprouting all the time. Can’t be that hard,” Steve says, before breaking into a smile and adding, “Don’t worry, I can be a soldier. Your facial hair doesn’t meet regulation.”

“Good. I don’t sacrifice the beard for anything.”

“Good,” Steve agrees. He pulls out a key from his pocket, slides it across the table, and motions to the waitress on the other side of the diner. “Could I borrow a pen?” he asks her as she approaches. Seamlessly, she hands one off to him, as well as a handwritten check, and doesn’t wait for Steve to scribble something down on a scrap of newspaper. “This is where we’re staying. Let’s split up, pick up what we need, and meet there tonight.” 

It’s the address of a hotel in Times Square. “I have a photographic memory, you know,” Tony mumbles, but he still pockets the address. “It shouldn’t take too long. Maybe we’ll even have time for dinner.”

Steve nods and organizes the newspapers. This is the moment where Tony’s supposed to decisively stand up and do something, but it’s a comfortable booth, they have a lot of time to find clothes before tomorrow, and Steve should really do something about that ketchup.

Which is exactly why Tony swipes his thumb along the bottom of Steve’s lip, effectively solving the ketchup situation and making Steve go still as his eyes follow Tony’s hand back to his side of the table. “I swear that was necessary.” Now that Tony’s done it, it doesn’t feel very necessary. If anything, the weird hyperfixation problem he was having with Steve’s mouth as moved to the pad of the thumb that he’s currently thoroughly wiping clean. 

“Of course it was,” Steve says, his eyes still fixated on Tony’s hand, and despite the fact that he thinks he has a pretty good grasp on Steve’s dry sense of humor, Tony can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. 

* * *

Finding clothes is easier than Tony expects, and he decides to spend the extra hours wandering the streets, taking in everything he can. He lingers over a couple Pontiac GTOs and debates the merits of improving his car collection if they manage to succeed on this Time Heist business. Most of his old ones never made it through the move to the lake house, he reminds himself, and avoids dwelling on the reasons why. 

It’s dark by the time he ends up walking past the peep shows and porn shops of Time Square. He almost forgot how seedy it used to be here and it makes him feel more like a kid who got a chance to sneak away from their mom than a grown-ass man who currently owns property four blocks away. He walks past the hotel a few times before he even notices it’s there, it’s so nondescript and dingy, and the woman working the front desk doesn’t even look up from her magazine as he waltzes by and takes the rickety elevator up to the twelfth floor.

“You could’ve splurged a little, you know,” Tony says as way of greeting Steve after he unlocks the door. It’s a tiny room with one double bed, a dresser, and barely enough floor space to walk entirely around it.

“I figured this was less conspicuous,” Steve calls from the bathroom. “And sorry about the bed. I told them I wanted a room for two, but I guess they just assumed.”

“It’s ok, I’d also assume you were getting laid.” Tony sits down on the bed and feels a spring struggling to break loose of the mattress. His back twitches.

The bathroom door opens, and Steve walks out, wearing a US Army uniform that serendipitously fits him to a T. “How do I look?” Steve asks, a tad smug.

“Damn you.”

A tad smug becomes _very smug._ Steve turns just a little so that Tony can see him in profile. “Does it do my ass any favors?”

 _Damn him_. “You’re never going to forget that, are you?” Not that he expects him to, just that he thought…they are going to pretend to forget it. 

“Nope,” Steve answers, popping the ‘p’ and frustratingly not saying anything else.

Tony figures he’s supposed to say something, too, just to cut through the inexplicable tension. Or at least make it less obvious that he’s actually thinking about the cut of Steve’s pants. The room, already stuffy and too small, contracts a little more. 

If it bothers Steve, he doesn’t do anything about it except pull a patch from his pocket and show Tony. “I got this for you.” It’s the SHIELD logo. “Found it in a bin at the surplus store, they’re probably not even sure what it’s for. Pym had one on his jacket in the picture, I figured it’d provide an extra layer of realism.”

“Good idea,” Tony fingers the embroidery. “Are you nervous?” he asks, not even sure where the question comes from. 

“About the mission?” asks Steve as he takes back the patch; that’s the moment Tony notices his fingers had been fractions of an inch away from Steve’s.

“About tomorrow,” Tony clarifies and he sits on his hands. “Returning to your old haunting grounds, and all that.”

Steve shrugs. “Haven’t really thought about it.” He opens a travel-sized sewing kit and without asking, rifles through the plastic bag holding everything Tony bought today until he pulls out the oversized black jacket.

Tony watches him lay out the jacket and pass approval on Tony’s choice before beginning to thread the needle. “Here, let me do it.” Tony motions for Steve to handover the jacket and the patch. Steve does without asking for clarification. “You don’t seem too fazed by this time travel stuff,” he observes and is glad he can keep his eyes and hands busy with attaching the patch. 

“In the groups I run, we talk a lot about taking it ‘one day at a time’. You just got to wake up and live the moment in front of you,” Steve explains and Tony doesn’t have to look at him to see him to know he’s staring nowhere in particular. “Doesn’t matter _when_ that moment is.”

Tony laughs, despite telling himself that is probably not the proper answer to Steve’s stoic response. “I guess as the Avengers’ resident time traveler, you should know.” The weird electric tension from earlier has faded into something less sexual but more loaded, and Tony finally sneaks a look at Steve. He expects Steve to seem wired tight, jaw clenched and brow furrowed, but he’s still soft and casual and half sitting on the dresser.

“I guess so.” The dresser bumps against the wall when he stands up. Tony’s eyes snap back to where he’s trying to do a halfway decent job sewing the patch on the coat. “You want some pizza?” he asks. “I’m starving, and I saw a place around the corner. I’ll pick it up.”

And with that, Steve efficiently removes himself from the situation.

* * *

They eat an entire large pizza while sitting on the bed preparing for the next day. On a pile of takeout napkins, Steve draws two maps--one of Camp Lehigh as he remembers it from the 40’s and one from the time him and Nat visited in 2014. They speculate on things like the type of security measures they’ll have to encounter, and settle on a plan that gives them a lot of room to improvise. 

Then, they just...talk. They talk about their favorite pizza places that closed after the snap and Morgan and Steve’s support groups and helpful modifications they could make to the compound. They talk until the pizza box has been moved to the dresser and they’re brushing their teeth with the same travel sized toothbrush they bought from Duane Reade. 

It’s quite comfortable and easy until Steve starts unbuckling his pants. “Is it ok if I just sleep in my boxers?” It’s an afterthought, he only pauses once the grey slacks are past his hip bones.

Tony’s mouth opens, closes, and he squints his eyes. The answer is going to be ‘yes’ because neither of them have anything to sleep in and because Tony’s not really the type of person to be put off by someone’s thighs, but he can’t get it past his lips. 

Steve waits, patient, and prompts, “Tony?” when he doesn’t say anything. 

Tony pulls down his pants in one quick, fluid, motion that leaves him unprepared and off balance when he finally has to slip them past his feet. “Why wouldn’t it be?” 

Based on his pursed lips, it looks like Steve has an answer to that that he doesn’t share. “Just figured I’d ask,” he faux-explains instead, and finishes shimmying off his pants before lifting up the grossly colored polo so that he’s only left in his undershirt and boxers. He yawns. “I can’t believe how tired I am.”

It’s only because yawns are contagious that Tony stretches his arms to the ceiling and feels the sound of his own flow through his body. The lack of anything to do in addition to Steve’s reassuring company makes sleep look like an actual possibility tonight. He flops down on the bed and rolls to a side of his own. Steve turns off the light, crawls, on his hands and knees, takes over the little free space Tony leaves behind. Tony watches him rearrange the covers from out and under him, and the sight of Steve trying to figure out how to get himself under the blanket without moving Tony is very amusing.

“Wait, no--” Tony begins to say when it becomes clear that they don’t have the sort of space to make that work, “Let me, I just need to…” and he kicks the rest of the blanket out from where it’s tucked under the mattress. The whole process involves moving a lot of limbs and leads to Tony kneeing Steve’s bare thighs a couple of times, but it finishes with both of them comfortable and warm, so Steve doesn’t complain. 

He doesn’t say _anything_. Tony looks over to make sure he hasn’t already fallen asleep, only to find Steve’s looking at him. “Good night, Tony,” he says, a soft and languid smile on his lips visible in the faint light illuminating from the streetlights through window. This may be the first time Tony has ever seen Steve sleepy before. It’s…unexpected. 

And intimate, in a way that makes Tony feel safe and warm.

That has to be why Tony doesn’t let the night fall away where it is, and opens his mouth instead. “This is nice. Been a while since I shared a bed with someone.”

Steve’s forehead creases in a way that is too adorable for a grown man. “How long?”

“It’s been, what, three weeks since we started this time travel thing?” Tony thinks about the last night he spent at the lakehouse with Pepper. 

“Makes sense,” Steve says, but it’s quiet and half into the pillow. 

Tony reflexively keeps talking, hoping to reright the strange mood shift he’d prefer not to examine too closely. “The compound’s lonely.”

“It is,” Steve replies, very quick, and Tony can tell there’s more he wants to say. There’s a few moments where Tony debates himself about whether to let him continue, whether this conversation is about to get heavier than the two of them are ready to handle. Tony chooses to keep quiet and wait for Steve to fill the silence. “It’s been a while for me, too.” Steve groans, like he’s a tad ashamed for even saying that. 

“How long?”

“Uh…” Steve turns so that he’s laying on his back, eyes straight on the ceiling. “We used to have to share a bed when we were on the run. Sam snores.” 

There’s a lot to unpack there. “I didn’t know that,” Tony replies, and he’s now wishing he’d taken the opportunity to steer the conversation in another direction.

Steve must sense that. “It’s nothing,” he says, and he rolls over so that he’s facing the wall and away from Tony. “Just agreeing. This is nice.”

Sure, that admission pulls on Tony’s heartstrings, but it also makes him feel like he’s important and powerful enough to be entrusted with this information. It’s probably that feeling which spurs him to shift closer to Steve, slot his body behind him, and wrap his arm around Steve’s chest.

“What are you doing?” Steve tenses.

“I’m cuddling you.” Tony says, like it’s obvious and Steve is just a little slow on the uptake.

Tony expects Steve to shake off his hold at this point and throw off balance the delicate dance they’ve been doing together, but instead his shoulders just clench in on themselves a bit when he replies, “Why are you cuddling me?”

“To thank you for all you’ve done for this country?” It’s an obvious misdirection on Tony’s part, an attempt to draw Steve into a comfortable back-and-forth like they had before.

It works. Steve chuckles. “Somehow, I doubt that.” 

“I don’t know what you want me to say. We’re going to visit the birthplace of Captain America tomorrow, and I’m having flashbacks to when you used to be my hero.”

“Don’t think I don’t notice the past tense in that sentence,” Steve says in faked anger. Tony can’t see his face, but it sure sounds like he’s smiling.

“You caught me. You’re no longer my hero, just my friend.” Tony in no way means for that to sound as corny as it is, and his first, second, and third instincts are to lampshade the comment with a self-deprecating joke, but the joke never comes to his mind and the need to deflect ebbs away to the rhythm of Steve’s breathing. 

They stay like that for a while, and right about the moment Tony thinks he might be able to sleep like this, Steve speaks up. “Would Pepper be ok with this?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, sounding less confident than he wants to. There is a line, a very fine, nebulous, and complicated line he’s been tiptoeing around, and it’s far easier to strike the necessary balance when he isn’t staring straight at it. “It’s just cuddling.” And Tony might touch people, and flirts all the time with others, but he always respects Pepper’s clear boundaries. 

The fact that he wants to fuck Steve doesn’t mean he will. If anything, acknowledging it makes it less likely, ruins the mystique and the urge. Acknowledging it means acknowledging all the other things he wants. And as good as fucking Steve would be--and Tony’s sure it would be _good_ \--he meant it when he said he wants to keep what he already has.

“Plus,” Tony adds when the sounds of sirens outside begins to feel a little ominous. “Pepper would really appreciate a full report on what your deltoids feel like.”

Steve lets out a big breath of air, “What do they feel like?”

Tony tries to focus on Steve’s body, from the controlled way he’s breathing to the tension he can feel everywhere. When they get home, Tony’s going to refer Steve to his massage therapist and then find creative ways to threaten Steve into making an appointment. “It feels like I’m hugging the statue of David.” He rolls onto his back. The sirens have stopped, but lights are flashing outside the window, casting shadows against the ceiling. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Steve rolls over, too. Tony doesn’t even need the light to see it, the bed is just that bad. “I thought I already answered that question.”

“You should.” It would have the duel effect of dampening Tony’s little crush and giving him an extra person to help him badger Steve into being nice to himself. Win-win. “You deserve to be someone’s little spoon.” Steve actually groans and Tony can hear him roll his eyes. “Or big spoon, I’m not judging.”

“Tony--”

“Yeah?”

“Spoons of all sizes slot together. Size doesn’t matter,” Steve explains, like he’s reading aloud a mission report.

“Tou-che.” The line, that ‘Steve is quite fuckable right now' line is too close in his vision, and that’s the only thing that deters him from making a joke about situations when size matters. “It’s just that--”

“It’s not the type of thing I have much of a choice with.”

Tony has a lot of thoughts about that sentiment. “Did you just say you didn’t have a choice?”

“I mean--”

“You? Steve Rogers?” Tony props himself up by his elbow and looks down to see Steve staring straight up at him, eyes wide and a rebuke on his lips. “I thought your whole thing was choice. We had this fight, not sure if you remember it, but you argument rested on this idea to _choose_ things--”

“Tony, I didn’t mean--”

Tony has no intention of letting him get a word in. “No, no, no, I get it, it wasn’t a big deal. Just a tiny tiff, really minor. Makes sense you would forget. It’s not like we didn’t talk for _seven years_.”

This is the sort of situation that Tony expects to spiral out of control when Steve’s involved. They’re better now, sure, but like everything about Tony’s relationship with the man, that’s tenuous. He expects Steve to yell back or come to his own defense or even try to deescalate the situation.

But, no. He picks up the pillow behind him--and with it--hits Tony across the head.

“You did not just do that...” Tony says in awe.

Steve smirks, honest-to-goodness smirks, and props himself up to his knees. “What’re you going to do about it?”

Tony gapes back. “I’m going to make you pay,” he confidently declares, and smacks Steve with a dramatic upswing of his pillow.

It catches Steve off guard and puts a smile across his lips. “Let’s just see, old man.” He one-handedly catches Tony across the chest.

Tony tries to hit him back, but the time Steve deflects. Feathers fly across the room, falling like snow lit from the city lights outside, and Tony staggers up and onto his feet so that he’s standing on the bed.

Steve’s not wrong, that wasn’t as easy on his knees as it used to be, and for all the money currently funding the Avengers, he’d never let him know that. “ _You’re_ calling _me_ old?” he taunts. 

He gets a pillow across the thighs as a response and he falls to his knees, dangerously straddling Steve’s hips while holding his own pillow to the ceiling. Everything goes still and quiet, leaving nothing but the sounds of both of their heavy breathing and Tony’s heartbeats thrumming in his ears. The look on Steve’s face--eyes blown, mouth slack--fuck, if Tony had thought he’d been imagining the sexual tension, he knows he wasn’t anymore. 

It also doesn’t escape him that all they would have to do is switch positions and swap in Steve’s shield for a pillow and this could be something else entirely. 

Something that should hurt.

Tony laughs.

A big one, the kind that comes right up from the stomach and through the lungs and opens his mouth wide. Steve joins in, both of their bodies shaking with laughter. Tony laughs so hard his abdomen hurts, so hard his cheeks twinge. He’s still gasping for air when he can finally get words out and say, “We just keep falling into the same patterns, don’t we?”

Steve shakes his head, not like he disagrees but like he’s trying to dislodge a thought, and pushes himself up so that can sit and move his legs out from under Tony. “I used to wonder a lot if it would be different if we could do it all over again. Right from the beginning.”

“We could try?” Tony offers and he holds out his hand. “I’m Tony Stark, the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist. You may know me as Iron Man, or have seen me in the 2006 sex tape my publicist is still pretending is a fake.” He purposely goes broad and picks all the things he know Steve doesn’t care about.

Steve chuckles, but he reciprocates and shakes Tony's hand in a firm grip. “Steve Rogers. Made famous by history books and some popular memes, including ‘so, you got detention’.” Help-him-god, he perfectly pantomimes throwing his leg over the back of a chair and making _that_ face. 

And that takes Tony back to a different time, far more effectively than their pillow fight had. He flops down onto the bed and chances a glance at Steve. “I have a confession.”

“Huh?” Steve grunts as he slides down so that he’s laying on the bed again, now a comfortable six inches from Tony. 

“I made some of those memes.”

Steve’s forehead scrunches in confusion. “Lots of people did.”

Tony bites his lip. He doesn’t feel good saying this, but honesty has to be a thing between them. “Yeah, but I made a couple of the meaner ones.” 

“Which ones?” He looks genuinely curious, but not upset, just interested.

“You probably didn’t see them, I don’t think they took off--”

“You don’t know that…”

Tony sighs, debates switching the topic entirely, and shuts his eyes close. “I think the worst was ‘So, you lied and destroyed your found family.’ It may have been a little too on the nose to be applicable to the public at large.” He opens one eye to look at Steve and see his reaction. 

“I saw that one…” Steve says, gently, the lines of his forehead especially noticeable. When did Steve get wrinkles? “And don’t worry about it.” 

Tony would prefer to be yelled at right now.

“In my defense, I was pretty angry,” Tony begins to explain in panic. “And it was cathartic, and I didn’t think you’d ever see them--oh wait--” he pauses and squints at Steve. “You look at memes about yourself?”

Steve’s staring somewhere half a foot above Tony’s shoulder. “Uh, yeah? It was pretty boring during those two years on the run. It’s not like the quinjet has a gym to keep me busy.”

“You spent two years looking at mean things about yourself on the internet?”

“Among other things. And they weren’t _all_ mean.” Steve shrugs. “Also, the five years after that.”

Tony is, for the record, not ok with this conversation. He would like to exit it as soon as possible. “That whole ‘let’s start over again’ thing didn’t last long.” It had been a great couple of seconds while it lasted. 

“I have a confession, too,” Steve says, his voice small, his eyes terrified. 

Anything to change the subject. “What is it?,” Tony asks.

“I’ve seen your sex tape.” The words fall out in one quick breath, like Steve’s ripping off a band-aid. 

“Oh…” That was not what Tony was expecting. “Opinions?”

“Huh?” That clearly wasn’t the response Steve was also expecting.

Tony defaults to overconfidence in the face of this confusing revelation. “What’s your review? Did it blow your mind? On a scale of one to earth-shattering, how great does it look like I am in bed?”

Steve silent but his eyes are scrunched like he’s thinking really hard. 

“That bad?” Tony’s false confidence is rapidly falling away.

Steve winces. Tony can practically feel the moment he chooses to tell the truth despite great personal cost. “That... _good_? I’ve seen it more than once.”

Tony’s speechless. “Oh.” 

“Yeah, ‘oh.’” Steve stands up in a motion that causes the bed to bounce. “I’m going to take a shower,” he announces, terse.

“Yeah, cool, good idea,” Tony mutters and attempts to steady his breathing. He tries to shut off his brain, because the rustling in the bathroom just tells him Steve’s taking off his clothes and the sound of water against the tile just conjures up images of water running down his naked body. 

Turning his brain off doesn’t work. So what if Steve just admitted that watching Tony’s sex tape was part of his regular rotation? So what if Steve was so embarrassed he had to remove himself from the situation? That didn’t mean anything. It didn’t _have to_ mean anything.

Fuck, Tony really hopes that the next person Steve dates likes giving blowjobs in the shower, because that’s the image Tony can’t shake out of his mind and someone, somewhere, deserves it.

He turns over and tries to will himself to sleep. _Pym particles_ , he thinks. _I got to figure that shit out. How the hell does Hank Pym do it? He’s such a jackass. I don’t know how anyone puts up with him. Scott’s nice, though. We couldn’t be doing this without his help. And his crush on Steve is hilarious and sweet._

_Steve._

_Steve, who’s currently surrounded by steam, drops of water falling down the ridges of his muscles, his abs, his thighs, the small of his back--_

Tony groans and switches to his other side in an attempt to stop his own thoughts.

 _The armor, what can I do with the armor?_ The armor has always been a safe line of thought. _I really need to focus on extending the adaptability. Make it easier to create new features on the fly._

_Like knee pads. For that shower-blowjob, Steve looking down at him through wet eyelashes, his hair, longer now, pushed back, falling in strands around his face. His hands would be woven in my--_

Goddammit. 

The shower turns off and Tony waits for the sounds of Steve shuffling out of the bathroom with his undershirt clinging to his damp skin. When he doesn’t, when nothing happens, Tony calls out, “Are you avoiding me?” 

Steve opens the door and steps out, “Yes?”, and yeah, Tony was right, Steve’s body getting clean did not do the same to Tony’s thoughts.

“Stop it.” Tony stares at him and hopes there’s enough light in the dark room that Steve can see just how serious he is. “We’re just two adults who want to fuck, but aren’t actually going to fuck. And that’s ok.” He pauses and hopes that doesn't scare Steve. He likes their newfound relationship, and he’d be damned if it gets ruined because of some unresolved sexual tension. “And I know you’re thinking about leaving for the night or sleeping on the floor, and god help me, if you suggest such a thing I will bait you into a fight where you call me an old man again and I, against all better judgement, say something about your virility. So let’s just skip over that part and get some sleep.”

Steve stays quiet for a beat long enough that Tony can tell he's really thinking it through, “If you’re sure,” he eventually says, climbs into bed. This time, it takes a little less time to get him under the covers. “Just so you know, I’m glad we’re working together again.”

Tony lets out a long breath. It’s an answer to the question that’s been hanging over Tony’s head. What they have is enough. It has to be. “Me, too. It’s great.” The edge of Steve’s lips turn up a bit, the same soft smile he gave Tony when Tony told him about the Time GPS. 

“Though, next time, we should probably get two rooms. Or at least, two beds,” Steve says.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Tony flops onto his back and focuses on the gentle movement of outside light against the wall. “I’m thinking of getting a 1967 Shelby Cobra when we get back,” he muses aloud.

“That’s a car?”

“Is it a car??” Tony asks, incredulous and happy. “I’ll have to keep it at the compound, though. I don’t have a lot of room at the lakehouse.”

Steve snorts at that, like he knows Tony could fit it just fine. “I’m sure we could squeeze into the garage if you insist. It’s Nat’s call, though.”

“Go on, ask me,” Tony prods.

“Ask you what?” 

“What you always ask me about cars, right after ‘is it bulletproof?’”

Steve groans. “Is it fast?”

“It’ll be faster when I’m done with it.” Tony shifts in the bed, trying to find a spot that’s comfortable between all the wayward springs. 

Against all logic, he feels tired. “Good night, Steve.”

“Sleep well, Tony,” Steve responds, and when Tony finally looks at him after a few minutes, his eyes are closed and he’s breathing gently through the beginning of sleep. 

This will have to be enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](https://msermesth.tumblr.com/post/186432620229/midnight-confessions)


End file.
